R&R’s Soul Food This new spot in far south Fort Worth that has long been home to various takes on soul food. in Keller, Outpost 36 is next door to the similarly named Horizon 76, an American restaurant with the same owners. The restaurant also makes its own bread, something no other North Texas BBQ joint does except Goldees. Good sides, too, including fried okra and green beans.
#ASIAN HIGHLAND PARK RESTAURANTS SKIN#
Everything we sampled during a recent visit was of good quality – brisket was tender and smoky, its spine etched in black pepper and melt-in-your-mouth fat jalapeno sausage was appropriately spicy and its skin had a good snap and pork ribs were of good size, not too big, not too small, with a hearty amount of meat. Instead of the usual cafeteria-style service, customers stand in line to order, watching meat-cutters slice and dice meats that include brisket, sausage, and pork & beef ribs, then wait for their food to be brought to them (meats are supplied from the owners’ own Texas ranch). No-one thought she would make a recovery.Outpost 36 What looks like a big corporate barbecue restaurant is really an independently owned restaurant run by a small group of friends, Jeff Lowery, Dwight Dowell and Chris Polk the place is just real big. Sadly, her dream was cut short after injuring her spine thrice, swinging from chandeliers. Too briefly, she swung swords, fought lions, ran through fire. No doubt, the persistence, confidence and striking good looks that she had inherited helped her find her way to the film sets of Wadia Movietone Productions, the very company that launched Nadia. I hear that since she watched Hunterwali, she dressed and styled her hair according to her favourite heroine – even wearing shorts and fashioning herself a mask. Including her wonderful baby girl.īorn the same year as India’s first talkie, ‘Alam Ara’, was released, spirited little Ruby was surely destined for stardom. When her dear father passed, she dreamed again, this time to turn the café into a place where everyone could be everything they imagined and more. She always had a rare and enviable confidence, a self-sufficiency that allowed her to turn things to her to advantage. Looking at her now, I suspect that there is hardly a moment she regrets. They say that Yasmin rose above the dishonour and tittle-tattle with a remarkable and healthy indifference. Those early years of motherhood for a so-called ‘fallen woman’ in Bombay must have been very tough.
But, perhaps inevitably, he left, his regiment posted away from India, leaving a tearful 19-year-old Yasmin with a baby girl (and a whisky habit). Hourston-Gordon and their life together at his family home in Ballater. The Lieutenant had been wholly sincere when he reminisced of his childhood in the Cairngorms and they talked of Yasmin’s future as Mrs. The delicious and intense affair was conducted in the rooms of Green’s and Watson’s Hotels over the course of the next year. I’ve been told that there was little that could have kept them apart that warm night in Colaba. Calum Hourston-Gordon, Highland Light Infantry. There, she encountered a certain straight-backed Lt. Wilful and rebellious, she drank and smoked and you might say that she found herself where she should not be, at the bar at Green’s Hotel. I used to idle here over Bun Maska and Chai and read my newspaper while fans stirred the warm air gently.įor the young Yasmin, life in the café had been dull and stuffy. I remember when this was just a large, sleepy Irani café owned by Yasmin’s father. Cine stars, at home on the page 3 society photos, chatter self-importantly about the latest talkie showing in the new cinema next door. Jazzmen, languid on rattan chairs, unwind to swing and jazz sounds. The obviously wealthy hobnob with the beautiful, the rakish and the occasional ne’er-do-wells. Each performance a hit, attended by all manner of Bombayites and revellers passing through this slightly wild port city.
Yasmin loves these evenings in her café-cum-club like nothing else. “Come beti, sit with me,” suggests her mother, Yasmin, at the bar, drink in hand, strikingly beautiful in deep blue chiffon. She glides between tables, past where I am sitting, making her way to the bar. She bows slightly and floats off the stage. The glamorous of Bombay, members of the band, old friends, wayward sailors all clap and shout their praise.
Her sari, draped and perfumed, is bottle-green and gold. She stands at the microphone, grins bashfully. I watch, entranced, as Ruby brings the last bars of her song to a wistful close.
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